


Put Your Head On My Shoulder

by Jakobslock



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Relationship, but barely!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24185503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakobslock/pseuds/Jakobslock
Summary: Eden-6 always has monsoons, torrential storms that force you indoors and keep you stuck in the ancient walls of the Jakobs Estate. It's a fairly miserable situation, but often good company can make the thunder seem nonexistent.
Relationships: Sir Hammerlock/Wainwright Jakobs
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Put Your Head On My Shoulder

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is almost entirely inspired by this specific version of the Paul Anka song where it's muted and it's raining, and the song that plays during this fic is this song 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_fE6fiJJFHA
> 
> Also shoutout to takeoutnight on twitter for letting me reference his terrible oc as Alistair's terrible ex

For five months of the year, it's monsoon season on Eden-6. That means that for five months of the year, the lowlands are flooded, the skies constantly overcast, and the moon's denizens retreat indoors to stay out of the damp. Tragically, this includes jabbers, saurians, and everything in between, so Alistair Hammerlock finds himself hiding out indoors as well.

He's been on the moon about 8 months, enough to make some friends and only minorly take advantage of Edenian hospitality. Hammerlock is currently staying at the Jakobs Estate, courtesy of Montgomery himself, and while he's grateful for the free room, he despises the place. The estate is an old building, with nonsensical winding hallways, creaking floors, malfunctioning lights, and more than one door that opens to a brick wall or, on one occasion, straight outside to a two story drop. Hammerlock has learned that dusty shelves and dingy rooms are apparently crucial to Monty's sensibilities when it comes to the Jakobs aesthetic. The entire place has this odd feeling to it, like one is being watched, and judged. It reminds him far too much of his childhood home. 

So, he avoids wandering, and keeps to the one tolerable wing of the house. The one where the windows are actually cleaned and aren't quite as dim, a majority of the unsettling portraits of dead eyed Jakobs ancestors have been taken down, and where the decrepit lightbulbs actually get changed to very nice, energy-efficient LEDs. 

Coincidentally, it's the wing where Monty's son takes up residence as well. By that, it's of course not coincidental at all, and in fact very deliberate. Wainwright has his own portion of the estate that his father doesn't touch, and his mother rarely did before her death. The second you enter through the door, you feel warmer, comforted, like the eyes watching you through the rest of the house have vanished. Hammerlock had asked to stay here for that reason. For the most part he did actually enjoy the small but lavishly decorated guest room he currently called home, even though he didn't spend much time in it. Though with the current storm raging outside, it seemed he'd better get comfortable.

Thankfully, the company helps improve the situation.

"I'm tellin' ya, I walked outside and sure as shit, there's my cousin Dale right in the middle of the damn yard, stripped to his skivvies and covered in honey."  
Wainwright's laughter is infectious, it always is, and Hammerlock gets caught up in it as well. He's not sure if the warm feeling is his cheeks is from the whiskey or that mischievous glint in Wainwright's eye.

"I'm sure your aunt was just delighted," he comments with a grin, leaning on the armrest of one of the two matching armchairs currently occupied in front of the fire. Thunder cracks overhead, rattling the windows, but Hammerlock barely notices because Wainwright's laughing again.

"Oh, you got no idea. Aunt Pam dragged his ass outta there so fast I'm pretty sure he ended up with turf burn, in addition to a pretty horrific infection of the uh, private variety."

"And here I thought honey was an antibiotic."

"It ain't when it's slathered over your bits and pieces!"

Hammerlock snorts, clapping a hand over his mouth at the less than graceful noise. Even so he still giggles, biting the inside of his cheek. Wainwright grins at him, he's almost beaming at him, though Hammerlock isn't quite sure why. 

"He did make off with one a' my momma's records though," Wainwright comments, "The jackass. Took me years to get it back from him, ended up havin' to get him real drunk on some moonshine so I could go nab it off his shelf." He sounds wistful, his voice picking up a higher cadence. Melodic. "That was one a' my finest moments, Alistair, in my humble opinion."

"Was it truly that important of a record?" Alistair asks, tilting his head slightly. Wainwright shrugs, grabbing the decanter to top off both of their glasses. He pours Alistair two fingers worth, and three for himself. He takes a drink before he answers.

"Not especially. It's just some old music, but it was one of my momma's favorites. It's a real nice one." Alistair takes a sip of his whiskey, the burn of it a nice distraction from how it makes Wainwright's voice just a tad scratchier. It sends a tingle down his spine, both the drink and the man in question.

"Do you still have it?" he asks, genuinely curious, "I have stolen a record or two in my own time, an original recording of Digby Vermouth's third studio album, his first one with the legendary saxophone Delilah in fact!" 

Wainwright laughs, smiling at his enthusiasm. 

"Who in the hell'd you steal that from?"

Alistair grimaces, rolling his eyes,  
"It was taken from an ex who had likely stolen it from someone else in the first place. He had a habit of stealing whatever he could get his hands on, particularly if it belonged to someone he knew personally. Though I should not say 'had' as he still does it."

Wainwright quirks an eyebrow, looking amused.

"I'm surprised you've got an ex who ain't dead or tryin' to steal your work, d'you still know this fine gentleman?" he asks, his voice humorous. Alistair groans, rubbing his temple.

"Ryder does not care a bit for my work, though he does call me whenever he needs a bailout."

Wainwright's eyes narrow slightly, before realization strikes him.

"Oh? Was he that guy with the odd way a' speakin' who called you a few months ago askin' for money?" 

Alistair laughs, nodding slightly.

"That would be the one, yes. A near constant headache, he is. He still will not give back the trophy I made of my first successful spiderant matriarch kill. The bastard does not deserve Digby." 

Wainwright snorts, something Alistair should not find as hopelessly charming as it is, and yet.

"So if I ever hear you mentionin' a Ryder on call, I'm stealin' your echo and tossin' it in the bog. Gotcha."  
That catches Alistair off guard, and he laughs so suddenly he nearly spills his drink all over himself. 

"Oh, I adore you," he laughs out, shaking his head softly. Wainwright suddenly gets very quiet, and then Alistair realizes he said that out loud. He clears his throat awkwardly. "So, records. Your mother was interested? Did she have a favorite?" Diversion tactics, perfect for accidentally likely unrequited advances.

Wainwright thankfully lets it slide, so it seems. He gets to his feet, setting his drink down with a wide grin.

"Matter a' fact she did! I still got it right here, it's real damn old, more than vintage."

Alistair watches fondly as Wainwright wanders over to a bookshelf, rooting through it and mumbling to himself. The rain seems to be pelting the windows even harder now, it almost sounds like hail. Thunder cracks, shaking the windows in their frame. Wainwright scoffs lightly, a record in his hands as he walks back over.

"Damn old house. We really ought to see 'bout getting them windows replaced."

"Mm, could be worse," Alistair muses, looking at the record curiously. He can't make out the title, and finds himself quite distracted by Wainwright's hands. Strong hands, they are. They seem like they would fit so nicely in Alistair's own, walking through town or simply held in a casual embrace while reading, or interlaced held over his head while-

"Worse how?" comes Wainwright's voice, snapping Alistair out of his schoolboy crush daydreaming. What was he talking about?

"Er, well I suppose it's normal for Eden-6, correct? I have yet to see much worse, which is quite pleasant compared to my home planet."

"That so?"

"Indeed. Hermes has approximately five months of hurricanes in the year. A heavy thunderstorm is far preferable in comparison."

Wainwright hums, mulling it over before shrugging a shoulder. He sets the record down, booting up a hilariously old looking phonograph.

"Ain't ever been much for thunder myself, catches you off guard and rustles you up," he says, setting the record on the machine. He sets the needle, and turns to Alistair as the music starts playing softly, a bright grin on his face. It's a picture out of a romantic comedy, damn him. He could swear Wainwright does it on purpose sometimes, just to make his heart flutter. "Thankfully we got music to help an' drown it out with somethin' pleasant," he says, picking up his drink again as he quiets down, humming softly to the tune. It seems he knows it well.

The music is oddly familiar to Alistair, though he'd be hard pressed to name why. It's not so much the tune as...A feeling. Regardless, it's a lovely track, and as the vocals come in Alistair finds himself entranced. Almost as entranced as he is with the man playing it. 

"This reminds me of formal dance lessons," he says, "My instructor often used old music, from centuries back."

"You don't say?" Wainwright asks, coming over to lean on Alistair's arm chair. Alistair's fingers twitch at the closeness, wanting to drag him closer. 

"I ain't ever been much of a dancer," Wainwright comments, "My daddy always said it was a fool's errand. My momma was gonna teach me when I came of age, but she passed before then."

Alistair really wishes he could have met Maggie. From what he can tell, she was wonderful, kind, loving, the opposite of Montgomery entirely. Wainwright's gone quiet again, and before he can stop himself Alistair is reaching up to rest his hand on Wainwright's in consolation. Now doesn't seem like the best time to talk about dead mother's, however.

"I could teach you," Alistair blurts out, barely thinking. "If you'd like, of course. I enjoy dancing quite a bit."

Wainwright quirks an eyebrow, and Alistair's worried he crossed a line. The moment of awkward silence is horrifying, that was an extremely improper suggestion, dammit. Wainwright stands back and offers his hand.

"Alright, why not? Jus' don't blame me if I step on your toes."

Oh hell. They're actually doing this now. Alistair curses his own lack of verbal filter. Now he's going to mess something up or go overboard or oh who gives a damn, just do it. Wainwright's hand, when he takes it, feels like it sends an electric shock through him. He gets as much as he can out of the brief contact, and comes to the conclusion that Wainwright's hands are just as annoyingly perfect as the rest of him. 

Alistair sets his drink down, reluctantly dropping Wainwright's hand. He brushes off his pants, just in case of hidden dust.

"Right," he says, making himself switch into Teaching Mode. Easier to focus that way. "I shall be leading, so if you would kindly place your hand on my shoulder."

Wainwright smirks, and does so. Alistair settles his own hand on Wainwright's waist, the metal one, so he's not holding Wainwright's with something cold. Alistair's heart leaps at the contact, his pulse kicking up a bit when Wainwright takes his hand again. He wants to stop right here, savor this moment of contact that he may never get again. 

The music resonates softly through the room, quiet yet somehow all encompassing, filling the space and Alistair's mind. He focuses on it, letting the tune guide his movements.

"A waltz is the easiest form of ballroom, in my opinion. It is a four step sequence, back, side, forward, side."

He gently guides Wainwright through the movements, and Wainwright lets him without argument. The man is staring down at his feet in concentration, seemingly determined to not step on Alistair's toes. It gives Alistair a perfect opportunity to stare at him, carefully observing the details of his astonishingly handsome face.

His first meeting with Wainwright was anything but poetic. Alistair had been tracking something near the Lodge, halfway up a tree when Wainwright had come up and surprised him. As a result Alistair had fallen out of the tree and accidentally shot Wainwright in the shoulder. There was a lot of yelling and complaining, but afterwards Alistair invited him out for a drink in apology. There, they had actually talked, introduced themselves and had a real conversation. There, Alistair realized that Wainwright had perhaps the most charming smile he had ever seen, that his voice was warm and calming, that he had a sharp mind and a sharper wit. 

He was utterly enchanted by him, and every day they've spent together since has only made it worse for nearly seven months.  
He still tries to deny it, on occasion he even managed to convince himself it's true. But in moments like this, moments that are close and quiet and Alistair can get lost in the depth of his voice or the warmth of his hands, he can't deny that he is rather hopelessly in love with Wainwright Jakobs.

But, Wainwright is the heir to one of the most prestigious empires in the galaxy. He's a brilliant man with a mind for family and proper conduct, he's a savant when it comes to business and even though it doesn't seem to be what Wainwright wants for his life, it's how he was raised, it's his destiny. 

Who is he to get in the way of that with silly romance? He's not even sure Wainwright remotely feels the same. He hopes, of course, dreams of being able to hold him in his arms and kiss him like he means it, to go together hand in hand, but those fantasies stay with him.

"Am I doin' this right?" Wainwright asks, still looking at the ground. His tongue is slightly poking out in concentration and Alistair's heart swells in fondness.

"Actually, yes. I have taught far worse than you. I attempted to teach my friend Mordecai the waltz for his wedding and he did horribly. Though Brick was not much better."

He feels like he could get drunk just on Wainwright's laughter, even as he stumbles a little, distracted.

"Well, I got a pretty good teacher. Where'd you learn this, anyway?"

Alistair hums, starting to lead Wainwright around the room instead of just standing in place. He goes slowly, not wanting to trip either of them or move too fast and lose the moment.

"Oh, all over really. Boarding school, my university's gentleman's club, what have you. Mostly though, at home, when hurricane season kept us indoors for days on end."

Alistair quickly drops his hand from Wainwright's and moves back a little, taking advantage of the man's curious look to twirl him, before returning to their previous position. Wainwright's resulting laughter as he stumbles in surprise is such a beautiful sound, the pure joy in it intoxicating. Alistair laughs as well, squeezing Wainwright's hand in his. Wainwright squeezes back, a look on his face Alistair wants to call fondness but is hesitant to name it so.

"Easy there, fancy feet, I ain't as graceful as you are," Wainwright chuckles. His voice carries that tinge of fondness as well, which Alistair wants to vehemently deny. Not good to raise hopes, after all.

"Oh relax, Winny," Alistair says with a grin. The nickname comes before he can stop it, and Wainwright quirks an eyebrow in amusement. Alistair clears his throat, starting the dance again in hopes it will prove a distraction. "A waltz never hurt anyone, even one with two left feet such as yourself."

"Winny?"

"Too much?" Now you've done it. Except Wainwright just laughs softly, moving in closer. Huh. Alistair must have slowed his steps down. He picks up the pace a  
bit, the two of them circling the room now. Wainwright stays oddly close. Is he worried over tripping? 

"Nah. Just ain't ever had a nickname, it's cute."

Cute... Hm. Wainwright's tone of voice is cute. 

"I hope you don't mind if I don't got a nickname for you," Wainwright adds, squeezing Alistair's hand again.

"You are the only person who uses my first name as is, that is enough of a nickname. Though if you ever decide to call me "Allie" I will leave and never return."  
Wainwright snorts, shaking his head,

"That'd be one hell of a breakup story, huh?" he teases with a smirk.

Alistair doesn't know how to respond to that so he doesn't. His face feels hot. Wainwright notices, a slight look of panic crossing his features before he glances away. Their movements slow, both of them seemingly lost in thought as they sway together in place. What was that supposed to mean? There's no way Wainwright could be... Could he? With someone like him? That's a contrast. But maybe it's a good contrast. It certainly hasn't deterred Alistair. Wainwright still isn't looking at him. 

The song has long since ended, and the one currently playing is not well suited for a waltz. Alistair scrambles for a way to rectify the situation. He should drop his hand, apologize for being improper, crossing a line he isn't sure exists in the first place. He does not do that.

"Hold on a bit," is what he says, and Wainwright finally looks at him. Alistair winks, and twists the two of them just enough so that he can dip Wainwright in a perfect finishing move. Wainwright's hand tightens on Alistair's shoulder and he makes a small noise of shock, one that's quickly replaced by a grin. Thank god for metal limbs. Alistair holds Wainwright there for a moment before pulling the man upright. Wainwright's smile is back, just as radiant as ever. It almost hurts to look at. But he does, they do, he's not sure how this is going anymore. It's an uncertain variable, and those are the worst kinds. This is a make or break moment, could end things or perhaps start something new. 

Thunder cracks overhead. Alistair drops his hand from Wainwright's waist, stepping back as he clears his throat.

"Right. Well. That's how you waltz, at least the basic form," he tries to drop Wainwright's hand. Wainwright tightens his grip and all but yanks Alistair in close. This time, his hand goes around Alistair's waist, keeping him there. "You are a surprisingly good student," he says, his voice going up in pitch. He can't stop himself from glancing at Wainwright's lips. "Well, not- Not surprisingly of course, after all you-"

"Alistair?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up a sec."

Alistair does, swallowing. He looks at Wainwright's face, his eyes. He sees a warmth and an affection there he hasn't seen before. Or if he has he's denied it. When was the last time someone looked at him like that? 

He looks at Wainwright the same way. Their eyes meet, and they both know that they're in the same place. 

"Oh," Alistair breathes out, voice barely a whisper. It's not even a question of who moved first. They meet in the middle seamlessly, like it was something they were made to do. 

Alistair has kissed a lot of people in his time. Some, he felt a spark, some a shiver, some nothing at all. He's never felt anything like this. There's no spark, no a-ha moment, just a feeling of warmth, spreading throughout his body and soul. It's a feeling of comfort, belonging. Wainwright's lips against his feel like the most natural thing in the galaxy, his kiss feels like coming home. Alistair feels like he's drowning, in the best way possible. 

He's not much for the idea of fate, but this feels close. He can almost hear the voice of the cosmos in the back of his mind. "You see? You can stop searching, you've found it."

Eventually they have to break away, both breathing harder. They rest their foreheads against each other softly. Wainwright's other arm goes around Alistair's back and he gently wraps his own around Wainwright's shoulders. For maybe the first time in Alistair's life there's no uncertainty after a kiss, just a warm feeling in his stomach like the universe just clicked into place.

"...Can I please do that again?" Wainwright asks, his voice cracking a bit. Alistair laughs, not in mockery but pure and absolute joy. Wainwright looks startled, but his own bubbly laughter soon joins Alistair's. Thunder claps again but neither of them hear it, nothing right now exists outside of their embrace. Alistair doesn't answer his question, choosing to just kiss him again. It's somehow even more wonderful, more real, fueled by the knowledge that they both want this as bad and feel it as much. 

This time when they break away Wainwright hugs Alistair tightly, lifting him up off the ground. 

"You got no damn idea how long I've wanted to do that," he laughs. Alistair kisses his forehead as he's set back down.

"Is it approximately seven months? Because I have wanted to do that for seven months myself," Alistair teases. Wainwright snorts, his head coming to rest on Alistair's shoulder.

"Somethin' like that. You know half the house staff already think we're an item?"

"Do they? Well won't they be thrilled."

"So...Are we?"

"I almost think we have been, but neither of us felt inclined to do anything to confirm it."

"Huh. Guess so."

Wainwright straightens up, and let's go of Alistair. He brushes some non-existent dust off his coat, and to Alistair's surprise and delight he bows, taking one  
of Alistair's hands in his.

"I ain't ever been good at courtship but I think we're well past that point," Wainwright winks, kissing the back of Alistair's hand. His heart soars as he bites back a laugh. "So, Sir Hammerlock, would you do me the honor of officially being my partner?"

Alistair snickers, and bows as well. "Why, Mr. Jakobs, nothing would make me happier."

"Well hot damn!" Wainwright exclaims, clapping his hands together, "I'm sure my father will be delighted." 

They both crack up laughing, and they're still laughing even as they pull each other close one more, and they're still laughing as thunder cracks overhead, shaking the windows as Alistair kisses Wainwright again, and again, and again.


End file.
